


Balls-deep in the corner pocket

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal, M/M, Pool & Billiards, Porn, Rimming, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:38:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wears a new suit, Sherlock finds him even more attractive than usual, and the boys take advantage of the surface of a billiards table at a high-end gentleman's club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balls-deep in the corner pocket

**Author's Note:**

> This is me expanding on a 221-B drabble I wrote a while back. There was insinuation of porn in it and I was accused of causing “undue stress and mental anguish” to a certain goddess of smut, one Atlin Merrick (http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com). So in order to remedy that, have some billiards-table sexings. Also, I make no apologies for the god-awful pun in the title.
> 
> Just a note – story includes slight mentions of gaping and rimming so if graphic ass-play isn’t your thing, please move along.

John follows Sherlock into the basement game room, adjusting his tie self-consciously. "D'you think this is nice enough? Why did your bloody brother invite us to his damned gentleman's club anyway?"

Sherlock smiles appraisingly. He'd finally managed to convince John to buy a properly tailored suit, and it was much more flattering to his broad shoulders and surprisingly trim waist than the horrid brown corduroy-like thing he'd owned up until that point. The suit was an incredibly deep charcoal grey silk and wool blend that managed to bring out John's eyes, and the coordinating tie matched Sherlock's new deep crimson shirt perfectly.

"John, you look absolutely delectable in that outfit. I am sorely tempted to throw you over this game table and shag you senseless. I'm even debating getting one of the cues involved in an entirely inappropriate way." John flushes, the combination of embarrassment and arousal tinting his cheeks nearly to match the tie his lover has wound through his long, dextrous fingers. Sherlock leans forward, causing John to rest his back against the edge of the table. Their lips meet in a furious kiss and Sherlock's hands begin to creep down to the flies of John's finely cut trousers when they hear some pointedly heavy footfalls on the stairs and pull abruptly apart.

Eyeing the flush on Sherlock’s neck and the general rumpled state of John’s clothing, Mycroft raises a brow.

"Hello John, Sherlock... Dare I ask what you're getting up to down here?" Somehow, he manages to imbue the sentence with far more meaning than any one person should have been able to.

"Honestly, Mycroft. What an asinine question. We're quite obviously playing billiards." Sherlock sounds scornful, not at all ruffled or distraught. John decides it would be best if he just keeps his mouth shut.

“Alright then.” He brushes an invisible speck off his lapel and readjusts his pocket watch. “Just do make sure you _tidy up_ when you’ve finished your game.” With a conspiratorial nod that makes John cringe inwardly, Mycroft heads back up to the main floor and closes the door to the basement with an audible click.

Sherlock spins back towards John, one hand bracing on either side of the pool table, effectively trapping the shorter man against the ornate mahogany frame and green felt surface. “Where were before my charmingly pompous brother interrupted us?” John squirms against the table. Now that his arousal has subsided somewhat, he can see what a ridiculous idea this is, but it’s hard to argue once Sherlock’s got his lips wrapped tightly around John’s earlobe. He groans and capitulates, closing his eyes and tossing his head further back as the rush of blood to his ear is mirrored by a rush of blood to his groin. He can feel his cock swelling in earnest now, trapped by the slim fit of his suit. He shivers and opens his eyes, locking with Sherlock’s thoroughly predatory gaze. It should be terrifying, but instead all John wants to do is submit to the taller man. His breath hitches in his throat as Sherlock breaks eye contact and brings his lips down to John’s jawline.

“You know, John, we barely made it out of the flat at all today. You just looked so unbearably fuckable in that suit, it took everything I had not to just throw you onto the sofa and rip it off you.” John tries to respond, but all he manages to get out is a breathy whimper.

Sherlock reaches up to pull John’s tie loose, sliding it out from under his collar and undoing the top two buttons. John lets out a soft moan as Sherlock’s teeth graze lightly along the newly exposed flesh of his throat and collarbone. John gasps as there’s a momentary break in the contact, until he feels Sherlock’s strong hands sliding into his jacket, gripping him firmly around the waist. He hitches the smaller man up slightly, and John gets the hint, hoisting himself up onto the padded lip of the table. Normally he’d resent being manhandled, be vaguely embarrassed about the fact that his feet don’t quite reach the ground, but right now he just can’t bring himself to mind too much. He sighs and braces himself against the surface of the table with his hands as Sherlock slides John’s jacket off his shoulders before quickly slipping out of his own and letting it fall to the floor.

Without the impediment of his tie in the way, Sherlock’s nimble fingers make quick work of John’s buttons, opening his shirt and exposing his softly muscled torso but not removing it completely. He pulls the tails of John’s shirt out from his trousers and hikes it up slightly, hands hovering over the exposed skin, barely touching. Sherlock can feel the fine hairs on John’s skin raise slightly as the maddening, teasing contact raises gooseflesh across his ribs and lower back.

Sherlock dips his head again and drags his teeth gently over John’s collarbone, tongue laving at the hollow between his collarbones for a moment before continuing down the exposed swath of skin down his chest. He pulls the shirt open further, so John’s entire torso is now exposed, the shirt hanging limply off his shoulders. Something about the fact that he’s still wearing it but it’s not covering anything drives Sherlock wild – it feels more scandalous than if John were entirely topless. With a moan, he brings his soft, swollen lips to the bud of John’s right nipple, teasing it into full hardness with his tongue and teeth. With his free hand, he briefly tweaks the left one before trailing his fingers lightly down over John’s chest and stomach before reaching down to press his palm against John’s swollen cock. John moans and thrusts his hips fractionally upwards, grinding himself against the warmth of Sherlock’s hand.

Making quick work of the flies, Sherlock frees John from the confines of his trousers, hitching them, along with his pants, down over John’s hips. John helps by raising himself off the edge of the table with a needy wriggle. Sherlock pulls his breath in with a sharp hiss as John’s cock springs free, already deeply flushed and glistening at the crown.

There’s a quick moment of fumbling as Sherlock tries to position himself closer to John. The shorter man is trying to spread his legs and wrap them around his lover, but his thighs are still trapped by his trousers. He toes his shoes off impatiently, the two men reaching down in tandem to pull his trousers and pants off completely. Once he’s finally free he props one heel on the side of the table for balance, wrapping the other around Sherlock’s legs and pulling him closer.

John gasps again and throws his head back as Sherlock nips at his abdomen and then looks up at him, a playful glimmer in his eyes.

“You seemed concerned about this before, John. Are you sure you want to go through with it. We could get caught at any moment.” Sherlock’s voice has dropped to a nearly-impossible purr, and John can barely manage to gasp out a breathy “Don’t you dare stop…”

That’s all the encouragement Sherlock needs, and he expediently drops his trousers and pants to mid-thigh after pulling a small bottle of lubricant out of his pocket. Sherlock’s erection is a sight to behold. John bites his lip as his eyes stare, transfixed, at the thick flesh of Sherlock’s cock, a small drop of pre-come leaving a dark smudge on the red silk of his shirt.

Sherlock ducks down briefly, running his tongue up along the soft flesh on the inside of John’s thigh, dipping into the crease where his leg joins his torso but maddeningly avoiding any contact with any more sensitive or excitable flesh. He stands again and positions himself in the vee of John’s splayed thighs, lowering his hips slightly and causing their throbbing erections to brush briefly against each other.

John hisses at the contact and gazes up at Sherlock. “For god’s sake, fuck me, you gorgeously insufferable creature.” Sherlock smirks and impertinently slides two slippery fingers quickly and deeply into John’s arsehole, causing him to gasp again. Normally he’d not be quite so impatient, but he’s been dying to stake his claim on the doctor ever since he got dressed at the flat earlier tonight, and they’ve been together frequently enough lately that he knows how much John can handle. Sherlock starts thrusting and scissoring his fingers, spreading John open and it’s not long before he’s able to slip in a third finger. He curls them against John’s prostate and bites his plush lower lip as John’s cock twitches against the stimulation.

At this, John hooks both legs around Sherlock’s thighs and jerks him closer, making his needs and wants very clear. Sherlock’s grown equally impatient and lubes his prick up with practiced efficiency, gripping the base and positioning his leaking head at John’s opening.

As Sherlock slides the length of his cock in, John’s hands scrabble for purchase on the smooth surface of the billiards table, but in the end he gives it up as a lost cause and just lays flat on his back, shoulders pressed into the deep green felt. His arse is still resting on the raised edge, his swollen cock thrust up and shamelessly presented to Sherlock. John groans, canting his hips upwards and wrapping one leg around Sherlock’s exposed hips, throwing the other over the tall man’s shoulder for leverage and pulling him in deeper. They hold still for a moment, Sherlock buried balls-deep inside John, giving him a moment to adjust. Within seconds, however, John starts sucking in gasping, panting little breaths and rocking his hips, revelling in the full sensation. Sherlock leans forward slightly and grips John at the hips, tight enough so that there will be bruises later, and painfully, torturously slowly pulls nearly the full length of his shaft out of John, so that only the head remains inside.

He continues like this for what feels like an eternity to John, but is in reality only three or four more strokes. Soon, though, even Sherlock loses what small semblance of control he had on his movements and begins thrusting in earnest. Repeatedly, he slams deep into John and pulls nearly completely out, slamming his hips forward with a low grunt as he fucks John into the surface of the table. He wraps one slippery hand around the swollen flesh of John’s warm, heavy cock and strokes it slowly, almost lazily, a counterpoint to the quicker, harsher motion of Sherlock’s cock fucking his arse.

Sherlock quickens his pace, snapping his hips in short shallow thrusts as his free hand strokes the soft flesh at John’s side and briefly pulls out, groaning to himself as he watches John’s anus gape and twitch before he fills him again with the thick length of his cock. Sherlock indulges in the sight a few more times before sliding completely in again. With every slam of his prominent hip bones into John’s fleshy arse, the two men groan in concert.

It’s not long before Sherlock feels John start to tremble and tense, clenching tightly around him. He ceases the slow tug and glide of his hand on John’s cock, gripping it tightly at the base and holding still.

“Oh, no, John” he rumbles. “Not until I’m done…”

John whimpers and grits his teeth, angling his hips to allow Sherlock to penetrate him even deeper, squirming in an attempt to avoid the constant maddening contact with his prostate.

“Please, Sherlock,” he pleads.

Sherlock picks up his pace, thrusting furiously and snapping his angular hips against the soft undersides of John’s thighs, never releasing the tight grip encircling John’s cock, engorged and glistening now with a constant stream of pre-come. Sherlock leans forward, driving himself in further as he quickens his pace, and brushes his lips against the curve of John’s jawline.

“Don’t you dare come yet, John. I’m not finished with you.”

With that, Sherlock gives one great final thrust, burying his cock in John’s tender arse as he climaxes, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other finally releases the building pressure on John’s erection. He lets out a low, rumbling groan as his hips twitch with every wave of intense orgasm. For a moment his mind goes blissfully blank, but he comes back to hear John’s frantic, needy keening. He’s pleading now, not with words but with incoherent whimpers and desperate shudders.

They gasp in concert as Sherlock pulls his softening cock out of John’s arse. Sherlock takes a brief moment to tuck himself back into his pants but doesn’t bother with his trousers before dropping to his knees, his dark curls barely visible from John’s line of sight. John barely has a minute to try to catch his breath before he feels Sherlock’s heated breath on the sensitive, swollen flesh of his anus. Nothing can prepare him, however, with the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue probing into the loosened ring of muscle. John lets out a loud yelp before stuffing the knuckles of his left hand into his mouth.

With each probing stroke of Sherlock’s tongue, sharp now in a completely unexpected way, John’s cock twitches desperately. It’s leaking in earnest now, a thin string of liquid connecting the engorged head to his abdomen. Sherlock slides his tongue deeply into John, causing his hips to buck violently off the table. He feels one long, elegant hand wrap firmly around the base of his cock again, gripping tightly enough to briefly suspend the incredibly intense orgasm coiling in his belly.

“Sh… ‘l.. Sherlock… bloody hell… please” he gasps. The combined sensations are almost too much, bordering on the sweet, intense edge of intense pleasure and pain. Taking mercy on the poor man, Sherlock sweeps the tip of his tongue in one full loop around the rim of John’s anus before standing up again. The sight of him wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand is almost enough to undo John, but he breathes deeply through his teeth for a few moments and manages to calm down enough to hold on.

However, when Sherlock dips again and takes the head of poor John’s cock into that soft, wet mouth of his, nothing in the world can stop the sudden tremors that wrack his body. Sherlock merely purses his lips tightly around John’s shaft and releases the grip he’s got on the base. John moans around the knuckles in his mouth and wraps the fingers of his other hand through Sherlock’s curls as he arches, driving his cock further into his lover’s mouth as the orgasm hits him. Sherlock sucks deeply, swallowing ribbon after ribbon of hot ejaculate as John’s twitching and spasming beneath him slows.

As his climax finally dies down, John releases his death grip on Sherlock’s hair, both hands falling limp on the surface of the table as he gasps in a few breaths. He manages to coax Sherlock up onto the table with him, pulling him in for a deep, tangy kiss. The bitter taste of the two of them on his tongue, combined with the knowledge of where Sherlock’s tongue has been, proves to be almost too much for John as he groans into the kiss before breaking it and flopping back onto the table.

“That was…” he mumbles.

Sherlock smirks. “Debauched? Depraved? Disgusting?”

“I was thinking fantastic, actually.”

The table shakes as the two men giggle tiredly and manage to hoist themselves back off the surface and into standing positions. John’s knees buckle slightly and Sherlock catches him, holding him until he’s steadier.

They dress themselves quickly, and Sherlock, infuriatingly, looks perfect. Not a hair out of place. In comparison, John’s trousers are hideously wrinkled and the back of his shirt clings to him where he had sweat through it earlier. He puts his jacket back on, attempting to hide the worst of it, and makes a feeble attempt at brushing some of the wrinkles out. His hair is mussed and flattened from where he was leaning against the felt surface of the table, and he knows there’s no way to salvage that, so he gives it all up as a lost cause.

He’s caught with another fit of giggles, and Sherlock glances over at him, brows raised inquisitively.

“I was just thinking,” John snickers again “your brother would have a coronary if he knew what just happened.”

“John, I highly doubt that. In fact, judging from the state of his watch-chain earlier, and way he was slightly favouring his right side when he came down, I suspect he was engaged in similar activities before we got here. Which reminds me, have you seen DI Lestrade tonight?”

He sweeps back up the stairs, imperious as ever, leaving John to gawp at him and try feebly to compose himself.


End file.
